


Who Framed Edward Nigma?

by lfthinkerwrites



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Canon Compliant, Detective Noir, Gen, Murder Mystery, Originally Posted Elsewhere, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23303005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lfthinkerwrites/pseuds/lfthinkerwrites
Summary: When his former employer is murdered, it's up to Edward Nigma, the Riddler, to solve the case and clear his name. Naturally.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 33





	Who Framed Edward Nigma?

**Author's Note:**

> This was a piece originally written for the Arkham Fanzine. Get it here for free: https://pi3shark.itch.io/arkham-gallery-zine
> 
> So many talented artists and writers made this a joy to be a part of.

_Part One_

_The Crime_

Riddle me this: How does someone find a way to win, and still lose?

I realize of course, that this is more philosophical than the usual conundrums I stump the Caped Crusader with, but a riddle is a riddle. Normally I would never even dream of giving a hint, but I’m in an indulgent mood tonight, for reasons that will become apparent. So have a seat and let me tell you the story, and perhaps if you can figure out my riddle, I’ll let you find my socks.

It began as it usually does in Gotham City: on a dark city street on a dark black night. On this particular night, I, Edward Nigma, Prince of Puzzlers, was alone in my spacious apartment hideout. Well, one of them. It never hurts to have more than one place to hang your hat, as well as hide the proceeds from your latest escapades, but I digress. This particular hideout was nestled away in Gotham’s lower Bowery. Opulent enough for my standards, but out of the way enough to stay under the radar from the Bats and GCPD.

As I said, I was alone, sitting at my kitchen table, nursing my third lukewarm cup of coffee and looking over the blueprints for a new puzzle box I was to debut at my heist of the Gotham Met. My right-hand women, Query, and Echo were out of town at the moment, having insisted on taking a brief vacation. As I was feeling generous, and not in the mood to be thrown into my couch again, I agreed. As much as I love my girls, I didn’t mind the time to myself either. It was a typical early summer evening in Gotham, the rain a steady background noise while I was working. I also kept a radio on the table, tuned to the GCPD frequency to get the jump on any unwanted activity nearby. So far, nothing more interesting than a gas station robbery in Downtown and a mugging in Central Park. Quaint, really. I checked my watch. It was just after midnight, and I’d been in my seat since seven. I gave the blueprints one last look and shrugged. Even geniuses such as myself need their beauty sleep. 

I got out of my chair, popped my back, gathered the remains of the Chinese takeout I’d ordered for dinner and carried them to my garbage. Just when I thought about drawing myself a bath, a voice cut in on the police scanner.

_“All units, be advised: we have a murder in Forest Hills. Address is 2470 Forest Hills Court. Deceased is a white male, approximately 40 years of age.”_

I stilled the instant I heard the address. I knew it well. It was a sprawling mansion located in the finest neighborhood on Gotham Island. And the home of Daniel Mockridge, former CEO of Competitron Gaming.

And my former employer. 

I wasn’t always the suave, dashing figure you see on television and in mugshots after all. Once I had been a lowly video game programmer at Competitron until Mockridge had denied me my cut of the royalties and my proper due as a gaming genius. Well, I couldn’t let that stand. One kidnapping and attempted murder later, and I was fully established as the premier criminal mastermind in Gotham City, and Mockridge was left a sniveling wreck. That had been the better part of ten years ago, and while I never made another attempt on the man, I kept an eye on him. From what I understood, Mockridge barely left his house anymore, so shattered he was by our close encounter. His death satisfied my vengeful streak, but I couldn’t deny that the news unsettled me. _Oh well,_ I thought with a shrug. I was only one in a long line of people that Mockridge had screwed over. While I may be on GCPD’s radar, I doubted they’d consider me the sole suspect-

Another crackling noise from the dispatcher put paid to my hopes. _“All units be advised: there’s an unidentified object at the crime scene. It...looks like a box, with question marks drawn on the sides.”_

Well, _shit._ Whoever killed Mockridge was determined to put the blame on me, and knowing the lackwits at GCPD, they’d stop considering any other possible suspects. And to be fair. ‘I couldn’t have committed the murder because I was in my apartment planning a robbery’ doesn’t hold much water as an alibi. 

I stood in my kitchen, chewed my lip and pondered my two options. The first, and more sensible one, was to get out of town, join Query and Echo on their vacation and wait for the whole mess to blow over. The second, and by far more dangerous option, was to track down Mockridge’s murderer myself. 

Well, I’ve been called many things throughout my life, but ‘sensible’ is not one of them. Moreover, someone actually had the nerve, the audacity, the sheer unmitigated _gall_ , to pass this mere murder as my work! I couldn’t let that pass, I’d never be taken seriously in the underworld again. 

The first deduction I came to, still standing in my kitchen, was that whoever killed Mockridge wasn’t just some random disgruntled former employee, or run of the mill robber. It takes courage, and not a little bit of insanity to be willing to incur my wrath by framing me. My best bet was to start looking at my fellow Rogues. I stepped out of my kitchen, walked to my living room safe, entered the six-part combination and pulled out my most precious item. A small black book, containing the most up to date information about my fellow Rogues. I went back to my seat at the kitchen table, opened the black book and began to read.

Some people collect stamps or baseball cards. I collect information. Information is a valuable commodity after all, and in this life, can very often be the difference between success and failure, life and death. My chief success in Gotham, indeed, the reason I’ve been able to stay in the game for so long despite the lack of powers or special weapons so many of my other colleagues have is my use as an information broker. Trading in information was what helped pay for my gear and my henchmen in-between my encounters with the Dark Knight. Right now, however, I needed it to serve a different purpose. If I’m going to be hounded by the GCPD and Batman, I would much rather prefer if it was for something I actually did, thank you very much.

I flipped through the pages, quickly reviewing the information on my fellow Rogues. Half of them I could dismiss out of hand as they were in custody. Of the remaining half, I mentally ran through each name like a checklist. I was on good terms at the moment with Oswald, Selina, and Harley. Harv and I were at each other’s throats as usual, but he was far more likely to just shoot me than frame me for murder. Ivy hated me, but this didn’t fit her MO either. Jonathan and I had come to blows, figuratively and literally over an ill-fated attempt at robbing the Gotham City Gun Show three months prior, (Which I refuse to accept any blame for. I told him not to use the fear toxin until after Batman had arrived damn it,) and he is by far the pettiest son of a bitch I’ve ever known, but he couldn’t go for a walk down the street without that toxin of his, so I felt comfortable ruling him out. Jervis was passive-aggressive enough, but he was spineless. He’d be too worried about what I’d do in retaliation, as he should be. Freeze, Croc, and Scarface had no alibis, but no real motive to come after me. If Hagen was involved, it would be as a hired gun, not on his own initiative. Which left two suspects: Temple Fugate and Arthur Brown.

I gave each name in my book a closer look. According to my most recent notes, Fugate had disappeared from Gotham City after his arrest for attempting to blow up Mayor Hill and several onlookers at a Court building dedication ceremony. He had also attempted to kill me a year and a half ago over a stolen antique clock. Query and Echo had put him in intensive care for that stunt. I hadn’t heard through the grapevine about an escape, but if anyone could manage it, it would be Fugate. Then there was Arthur Brown, aka Cluemaster. We’d shared a hideout five years ago, and he repaid me by stealing my gimmick. We’d been feuding on and off since, most recently over which one of us exactly was going to rob the Gotham Met. (I won, of course.) Murdering my former boss and placing a fake puzzle box at the scene of the crime was exactly the sort of thing he’d do. My last notes on him, dated a week ago, had him as escaped from Blackgate, but his current location was unknown. 

I shut the black book, returned it to my safe, and headed to my bathroom for an overdue shower and a clean change of clothes. If I was going to solve this mystery, there was one stop I had to make first, and I was underdressed. Twenty minutes later, freshly coiffed and dressed in my favorite custom green suit, I collected my bowler hat, umbrella, and cane from the hat rack by the front door. The game was afoot.

  
  
_Part Two_

_The Iceberg Lounge_

Five blocks away from my current abode was the Iceberg Lounge, the premier nightclub for both the well-to-do and nefarious sets in Gotham City. The rich twits and celebrities go to see the mobsters, the mobsters go to see the celebrities, etc. etc. The owner, Oswald Cobblepot, served as the perfect bridge between the two worlds, being both a member of the social elite and the top pawnbroker, smuggler, and mediator between the other Rogues. More importantly, he was a good friend of mine. If he knew the current whereabouts of Fugate and Brown, he’d freely tell me.

It was ten minutes to one AM when I made it to the front doors of the lounge. The dinner crowds were long gone, but there would be people at the bar still, as well as any underworld folks who had business interests. The Maitre’D still stood in the entrance, giving me a snooty look until I closed up my umbrella and he got a good look at my face. “Mr. Nigma,” he said with surprise. “We weren’t expecting you.”

I flashed him a grin. “Well, I’m just full of surprises. Is Oswald in?”

“Yes, he’s in his office. I’ll escort you.” I followed the Maitre’D into the lounge. The lights were low in the restaurant, though as I thought, there was a decent-sized crowd still at the bar, too deep in their cups to notice me. Off to the right side, I could make out a handful of Ozzie’s employees tending to his penguins in the large exhibit he had in the lounge. How he tolerated the smell was beyond me, but he claimed it added to the lounge’s character. Finally, the Maitre’D stopped in front of a door and knocked on it. “Mr. Cobblepot, Mr. Nigma’s here to see you.”

“Send in him,” I heard my friend’s voice from the other side of the closed door. The Maitre’D gave me a quick nod, then opened the door for me. I stepped into a small if lavishly decorated office. Sitting behind the desk, smoking a cigar was the rotund figure of Oswald Cobblepot. “Edward,” he drawled, beckoning me inside with a wave of his hand. “Come in, come in.” I shut the door behind me and made my way to a plush red chair set up in front of Oswald’s desk. Almost as if he’d expected me. “I take it you’re here about the ‘unfortunate’ passing of Daniel Mockridge?” 

I chucked as I took my seat. “You’ve heard about that I see.”

“It’s been all over the news,” Oswald answered. He pulled a cigarette carton out of his jacket pocket and held it out to me. I took a cigarette from the carton and let my friend light it for me. Smoking isn’t a habit I indulge in often, but I needed something to take the edge off, and getting tipsy was out of the question. Oswald lit up his own cigarette and took a quick puff before shooting me a look. “Just between us, you didn’t actually kill the man, did you?”

I rolled my eyes after taking a long drag on my cigarette. “Really, Ozzie. Don’t you think I’m beyond killing a man in his own home? Without leaving a riddle? I thought you knew me better than that.”

Oswald held a hand up to placate me. “I meant no offense,” he said in a patient tone. “I was just curious.”

I shook my head. “Have you heard any details about the crime?”

“Through my sources in GCPD, I’ve heard that Mockridge was shot twice in the chest with a .38. No fingerprints left, of course.” I frowned. Normally, I leave the shooting to the girls, but when I did use a gun, the .38 was my choice. “There’s the puzzle box left at the scene, which I’m sure you’ve heard about. Last I heard, the bomb squad was still having trouble getting it open. There’s one other detail that’s being held back for the time being: Mockridge was severely beaten before he was shot. The coroner believes that the bruises left on the body were made by a long, heavy object, like a golf club, or a cane.”

_My_ cane, I could hear Oswald say. I took another long drag and pondered this information. Whoever wanted to pin the murder on me was nothing if not thorough. Well, it’s not as if I was the only Rogue in Gotham who used a cane, even if I was the most stylish. “I checked my dossier before I came out here,” I said. “I’ve ruled the suspect list down to Temple Fugate and Arthur Brown.”

“Just those two?” Oswald asked with a raised eyebrow. “You’re not considering any of Mockridge’s associates? Or another disgruntled former employee?”

“If they were going to kill the pathetic son of a bitch, they’d have done it years ago, not waited until he was little more than a recluse,” I argued, putting my cigarette out in the crystal ashtray Oswald had sitting on the left corner of his desk. “And besides, the puzzle box, the use of my favorite handgun, not to mention the use of a cane...this is personal. And no one in our esteemed little gallery has more personal motives to strike against me than Brown and Fugate.”

Oswald took a few more puffs, clearly mulling over my words. “You do have a point there, Edward.”

“Of course I do,” I sassed, drumming my fingers along the oak top of Oswald’s desk, only to stop when he shot me an irritated look. I took my hand back and gave him a sheepish grin. Oswald’s a good friend, really, but he doesn’t always have the most patience for my little...eccentricities. “Sorry. Anyway, I’m looking into them, but I’m afraid my information about them is a bit lacking.”

“And so here you are,” Oswald nodded. “Well, you can rule out Fugate. Word in the underworld is that after his last stunt with Mayor Hill, he ‘volunteered’ to join Lawton and company in Task Force X.”

Task Force X, or as it was popularly called the Suicide Squad. I’d been approached to ‘volunteer’ once myself, only for the powers that be to deem me unsuitable due to my ‘narcissism and delusions of grandeur.’ Delusions indeed. As if it was my fault no one else in their little team could keep up with my brilliance. But I digress. “Well, bully for him,” I said, swallowing my irritation. “Which leaves dear Arthur.”

“Indeed,” Oswald said. “He came by the lounge three nights ago, asking if I could spare him some men and weapons for his heist at the Gotham Met.”

“The heist that I planned first!” I shouted. I ought to have known Arthur would pull a stunt like this to try to cheat me out of my rightful earnings. I unclenched my fists and took a deep breath. “I hope you declined.”

“Of course I did,” Oswald assured me. “Everyone knows better than to steal a heist out from underneath another Rogue. It simply isn’t done.”

Everyone but Arthur Brown, apparently. Even Rogues had standards, though Arthur barely qualified as such. I’d had henchmen who could make a better run at being Rogues than Arthur Brown, which made his all but assured involvement with this debacle even more galling. I gave Oswald a vindictive smile. “Quite. Now, would you happen to know where he’s staying? I think he and I are overdue for a friendly chat.”

  
  
_Part Three_

_The Complication_

  
  
  


I took the calculated risk of going back to my apartment for my car before making my way to the location Oswald had given me. Luckily, my safe house remained undiscovered. The rain had stopped too, leaving behind a layer of fog that blanketed the city. Much more preferable to the smog, if you ask me, though it did necessitate a slower speed than I’d have liked. The address Oswald had given me was 22 Sprang Way, which was located in the lower West End, in a neighborhood that bordered the Narrows. A charming part of town.

When I arrived at the address, I parked my car across the street. It was deserted, with only one car parked in the driveway in front of the rundown house. I checked my rearview mirror to make sure no one followed me before performing a quick scan of the street. No sign of life. I pat my coat pocket, triple-checking to make sure my .38 was there before I hopped out of the car. 

As I approached the ramshackle townhouse, with it’s boarded up windows, unkempt exterior, and weed patch of a lawn, I couldn’t help but sneer. Even by Arthur’s standards, it was a dump. No, I take that back. Garbage would be embarrassed to be dumped here. No lights were on, but in this town, that didn’t mean anything. I took a few careful steps up the front porch, paused in front of the door, took my cane and rapped the head of it against the door.

“Arthur!” I called out. “It’s Edward! Open up! We need to talk!”

Silence. Either Arthur was out, or he was hiding. Well, one way to find out. I reached down to pull my lock-picking tools out of my pocket, leaning my cane against the door. I had the lockpick in my right hand and put my left hand on the doorknob for support when the knob gave way and the door opened. 

This caused me to take a step back. This neighborhood was two deadbolt country at minimum. Even the Joker wouldn’t be so foolish as to leave the door to his hideout unlocked. My eyes narrowed. Not unless he was setting up a trap. I grabbed my cane with my left hand and pulled my .38 out of my coat pocket with my right. I counted to three, then pushed the door open with my shoulder. That was my first mistake.

The lights were off, as was expected. What wasn’t expected, however, was the dark lump lying in the middle of the floor. I took a few hurried steps forward and examined the lump. It was a body. Specifically, the body of Arthur Brown. I’d recognize that tacky costume anywhere. I felt for a pulse. Nothing. “Damn it!” I cursed. “You would up and die on me, wouldn’t you Arthur?” A nuisance to the last. I put my gun back in my coat pocket and turned the body over. That was my second mistake. Arthur’s eyes were wide open, as was his mouth. No signs of life, however, and no obvious injuries. I’m no medical examiner, but it certainly seemed like an unnatural death to me. The only real clue I could find was that there seemed to be mud on Arthur’s coat. Some of it got on my gloves, much to my dismay.

I was so busy looking over the body that I stopped paying attention to my surroundings. My third, and final mistake. I was so engrossed with solving the riddle of the death of Arthur Brown that I missed the sound of the door opening, or of the footsteps slowly, but surely making their way towards me. “Nigma.”

I, I must admit, nearly jumped out of my skin at the deep voice behind me. I whipped my head around, only to see the last person I wanted to see that night. “Oh, _shit_ .” Batman stood above me, staring down impassively at me through that ridiculous cowl of his. I realized in that instant that I must look rather suspicious, hunched over Arthur Brown’s dead body as I was. Great, now I was being set up for _two_ murders. “Riddle me this-”

“Not now, Nigma,” the Dark Knight growled. 

I scowled. “Rude. Well…” I gestured to the body. “This isn’t what it looks like. I was merely-”

“Here to confront Arthur Brown about framing you for the murder of Daniel Mockridge.”

I felt my jaw drop. “What-how-”

“I followed you here from your apartment,” Batman continued. “I know that you and Brown didn’t get along. Naturally, he’d be your first suspect.”

I must have looked like the biggest moron on Earth, gaping at the vigilante as I was. “Oh, well done,” I grumbled. “If you keep this level of deduction up, I may let you help find my socks! So what, now you’re going to take me off to Arkham for the murders?”

“Arkham yes, the murders no,” Batman said. “I know you didn’t kill either Brown or Mockridge.”

This...well, it was a relief, but I wasn’t about to show him any gratitude. “And how exactly did you work that out? Was the lack of a riddle a tip-off?”

“That, and the fact that if you wanted Mockridge dead, you would have done it years ago.” He reached down to grab my shoulder and pulled me up. Normally I’d put up at least some token resistance, but I had enough on my mind without getting pummeled, thank you very much. “Don’t move,” he warned me before he crouched down to examine the body. I thought about making a run for it, but I knew how that would end. I settled instead for taking another look around the room we were in. It was...barren. Too barren. The only piece of furniture was a kitchen table a few feet to our left. Arthur wasn’t a hoarder, but he wasn’t this clean either. I took a quick look at Batman, where I spotted him...scraping off a piece of Arthur’s skin? Well, that was disgusting. I took advantage of his distraction to go over to the kitchen table, in the darkness, I thought I could make out a package on top of it. When I was next to the table, I could make out...a blinking light. A cold layer of dread settled in my gut, but I’ve never been one to leave a riddle unanswered. I looked down at the package and sure enough, it was a bomb. And the timer read 45 seconds. 44, 43…

I turned to run to the door, only to collide with Batman. He’d seen me move, apparently. He saw the bomb and picked me up, much to my dismay, running towards a boarded-up window. He dove out, me over his shoulder, and rolled us clear just as the ramshackle house blew up, wood and glass going everywhere.

I lay flat on my back, dazed, a ringing noise in my ears. Well. This was getting serious. Once my senses returned, I gingerly got myself up and started to walk towards my car, only to feel a massive hand on my shoulder. Batman was there, glaring down at me. “Nigma,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Really? I’ve been framed for two murders and you’re going to lock me away in Arkham? You know I’ll just break out and solve the case for you.”

“I’m not taking you back to Arkham,” Batman said, half leading me, half dragging me towards the Batmobile. “Until I find out who’s behind this, you’re staying with me.”

“I most certainly am not!” I shouted. “I’d rather go back to Akham than have you carry me around like a sack of potatoes!”

Batman’s grip on my arm tightened, and he leaned down. “Think about it Edward!” he shouted. “Whoever killed Mockridge and Brown knew that you would come here and set up a bomb! They aren’t just trying to frame you! They want to _kill_ you.”

Perhaps it was the explosion or the way that Batman was glaring at me, but for the first time in a long time, I was genuinely afraid. I gulped and nodded. “Lead the way, Dark Knight.”

In hindsight, I really should have just joined Deirdre and Nina in Vegas. 

  
  
_Part Four_

_The Partner_

Half an hour later, Batman and I were barrelling down Main Street in his ostentatious car. Normally, I’d take advantage of the opportunity of being in the passenger seat of the Batmobile to study the inner workings of the car and file it away for future use. However, the attempt on my life had rattled me. And also, the fact that my hands were cuffed in front of me was a distraction. “Really?” I asked. “Some partnership.”

“This isn’t a partnership,” Batman growled, not even having the decency of making eye contact with me. Jerk. “This is making sure you don’t get into any more trouble.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m touched. And here I thought you could care less if your Rogues started offing each other. It would make your life easier, wouldn’t it?”

Batman didn’t look at me, but I noticed something in his posture change. “I’ve never wanted any of you dead,” he said. “I want you out of this life, but that doesn’t mean I want you dead.”

You know what’s worse than a liar? An honest man. For a long time, neither of us said anything. I fiddled idly with the cuffs, only to stop when Batman sent a glare my way. I exhaled. “So,” I said. “You don’t think I killed Mockridge, but our best suspect for framing me is dead. Thoughts?”

“How did you come to think Brown was the best suspect?’ Batman answered without answering. 

“Well obviously, whoever did this has a grudge against me, and the only people brave enough to come after me like this are the other Rogues,” I said. “And once I eliminated the people in custody and the ones I’m on good terms with, that left Brown and Fugate. Fugate’s off with the Suicide Squad-” Batman’s eyes narrowed and I couldn’t help but smirk. “Yes, Dark Knight, I know all about Amanda Waller’s little project, but that’s neither here nor there. That left Brown.” I let out another huff. “Which leaves us at square one. Maybe Fugate has the juice to do it from whatever hole Waller has him in-”

“The Rogues aren’t the only powerful people you’ve angered,” Batman interrupted. “Moreover, Mockridge’’s home had a state of the art security system. One that showed no sign of being tampered with.”

I considered this. That fit with what I heard about Mockridge’s paranoia and Brown was no hacker. “So then whoever got into his home had to be let in.” 

“Exactly. He would have had no reason to let Brown in.”

I really, really hated when he was right. “Alright then, riddle me this, Dark Knight: if it wasn’t a Rogue and it wasn’t me, who was it? Who else would want Mockridge dead and would want me to take the fall-” A name suddenly popped into my mind. “Charles Baxter,” I murmured. “He and Mockridge were business rivals for years. And he still blames me for that nonsense with his toy company a few years back.” Baxter was the President of the Wacko Toy Company. He’d hired me to design toys for him during an ill-conceived attempt at reform, the less to say about that, the better. His company’s stock had taken a dive when my plan to kill Batman was foiled, leaving Baxter a few million poorer, and more important for him, embarrassed. “So that’s where we’re going? To interrogate Baxter?”

“We’re making a stop first,” Batman said, making a sharp right turn down an alley. He brought the Batmobile to a stop, and I saw Robin waiting for him on a motorcycle. The top of the car opened enough for Robin to approach. He looked at me askance and I greeted him with a jaunty wave of my hand. 

“Stuck with baby-sitting duty I see,” Robin quipped if one could call it that. “What have you got for me?”

Batman pulled out something from his belt, a small petri dish. I realized that it was the skin sample that he’d taken from Brown’s body. “Take this and get it analyzed.” Batman turned to look at me and his eyes narrowed. “What’s that on your gloves?”

I looked down at my mud-spattered gloves. “Mud, obviously. I got it on me when I was examining Brown’s body.”

A look passed between Batman and Robin. Then without a word, Batman reached over and began to pull my gloves off my hands! Keep in mind, I’m still cuffed as he’s doing this, the brute! “Excuse me!” I shouted. “I paid good money for these gloves!”

“They’re evidence,” Batman said with as much patience as I had, which was none. I put my hands in my lap, out of his reach, which made the vigilante clench his jaw. “I’ll get you a new pair,” he said. “Now hand them over.” I acquiesced, holding my hands back up and allowing him to remove the gloves. Truth be told, I had a half dozen pairs just like them back in my apartment, but the day I made things easy for Batman would be the day I died. 

Batman handed my dirty gloves to Robin. “So you’re going to see Baxter? What then?” the young pest asked.

“I’ll check in with you then,” Batman answered. The top of the car slammed shut, and once again, we were on our way. Batman said nothing further to me, but my brilliant mind was already working through what had just happened. Something about my muddy gloves intrigued the Bat and the Brat, but-

The answer hit me like the proverbial bolt of lightning. Was it mud on my gloves...or _clay_? “You suspect Hagen’s involved, don’t you?”

If Batman was surprised by my deduction, he didn’t let on, not that he ever acknowledged my superior intelligence anyway. “Yes.”

I frowned. If Hagen was involved, that could explain why Mockridge opened his door. Hagen may have impersonated someone he knew or expected, but if he was the hired gun...well, the man is as vain as some people think I am. Why hadn’t he made his presence known? Why not further cement the frame up and be seen as me? 

Oh, cement. That’s clever. I’ll have to remember that. “Well then,” I said, putting my feet up on the dashboard. “There’s another question to ask Baxter.”

This time, Batman did react. “Get your feet off my car.”

  
  
_Part Five_

_The Epiphany_

  
  


Riddle me this: if you were the President of a major toy company and you were brought face to face with the man who cost said company millions and humiliated you in the national press, what would you do? If you answered, ‘pull out a shotgun’ congratulations! You’re a reactionary idiot, just like Charles Baxter. The man didn’t seem to notice or care that Batman was right beside me as he pointed his gun at me. “Get that, that... _maniac_ out of my house! Right this instant!”

“Oh really Charles, is this any way to greet an old business associate?” I asked, raising my still cuffed hands. Baxter’s face became even redder and he looked ready to pull the trigger when Batman stepped in between us.

“Put the gun down, Baxter. I have a few questions I need you to answer.” Baxter huffed, but lowered his weapon, not taking his eyes off me for an instant. He gave Batman a curt nod. “Daniel Mockridge was murdered earlier this evening.”

“I’m aware,” Baxter said. “I saw it on the news.” He narrowed his gaze. “Looks to me like you got the son of a bitch that did it!”

“Nigma wasn’t involved, but whoever killed Mockridge wants the world to think he was,” Batman continued. “And who would know Nigma’s signatures better than the man who once licensed him?”

Baxter’s face turned pale. “You-you think I was involved?” he sputtered.

“Were you?” I asked. “As the Dark Knight says, you do have access to my puzzle technology. And you and Mockridge were old rivals.”

“‘Were’ is right,” Baxter said. “Daniel and I buried the hatchet after that fiasco you caused with my company!”

Were my previous employers holding therapy sessions about me? Now there was a disturbing thought. “Still,” I pressed on. “Who’d want me out of the way more than you?”

“Check outside Nigma: the line to get rid of you is forming around the block! And at any rate, it wouldn’t be difficult for someone to rip you off, given how much of a jackass you make of yourself on the news!”

I opened my mouth to retort when Batman stepped in. “That’s enough. Where were you tonight?”

“At a board meeting with my senior staff,” Baxter groused. “You can ask them yourself. And no matter how I felt about Nigma, I certainly wouldn’t kill Daniel to get back at him!”

“The Corporate Shark and the Toy Tycoon. How touching,” I drawled, enjoying the outraged look on Baxter’s face. “Perhaps you had too much sentimentality to kill the man yourself, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t hire someone to do it.”

Baxter let out a disbelieving laugh. “You really think, that if I hired a killer, that I would have sent them after Daniel when I could have sent them after you?”

I raised my hands but found I had no ready retort for that. I hate it when that happens. No, I thought. It didn’t make sense. If the goal was to kill me, why didn’t whoever hired Hagen just send him after me? I’m no slouch, but I freely admit, there isn’t much even I can do against a man who can change his appearance at will.

While I was pondering this, and many other questions, Batman continued to press on. “When was the last time you spoke to Mockridge?”

“Yesterday,” Baxter answered. “He said he had an appointment tonight with a new security contractor.”

“The name?” Batman asked. 

Baxter furrowed his brow. “Let me think...Reese something.”

It was as if a bolt of lightning hit me. “Coleman Reese?” I asked.

Baxter looked at me almost dumbfounded. “Why, yes. How did you know?”

I knew because it was an alias I had used on a job a few years back. A job I had worked on with none other than Arthur Brown. But Arthur was dead, I’d seen the body-

_Riddle me this: when is Arthur Brown not Arthur Brown?_

“Thank you for your time,” Batman said abruptly. He took me by the shoulder and guided me to the door of Baxter’s penthouse. I barely registered the movement, truth be told. I was too busy fitting the remaining puzzle pieces together. I’d been right all along, as always. The exhilaration of right giving way to anger. When I got my hands on Arthur, that duplicitous, conniving, son of a-

The top of the Batmobile popped open enough for Batman to all but shove me inside. “I’m taking you to GCPD,” was all he said before he began to walk to the driver’s side. As he was about to get in the car, he paused. “I’m here Robin.” I looked up and noticed that he had his back turned on me. Perfect. I reached two fingers down my sleeve and pulled out my lock-pick, getting to work unlocking the handcuffs. While I was doing this, I kept one ear on Batman’s conversation. “...I have a good idea of what’s going on. I’m dropping Nigma off at GCPD before I head over to the Met.” I narrowed my eyes. Oh no, you don’t, Dark Knight. This is my game. I took a quick look at our location. We were in the heart of Downtown, three blocks away from the Met. With a click, the handcuffs opened and my hands were free. I could make a run for it now, but it would be seconds until Batman caught me. I needed a distraction. Luckily, my cane was lying at my feet. I took another look at Batman, and, satisfied that his eyes were off me, reached down to grab my cane.

“Edward!”

Oh, of course, the second I get my cane is the moment Batman decides to look at me. I looked up, cane in hand, to see Batman about to get back into the Batmobile, his jaw set. This was my shot, so to speak. I raised my cane, took aim, and fired. Not bullets, of course. If I’d killed Batman, this would hardly be the time I told you, now wouldn’t it? No, what I fired was a variation of the Chinese finger puzzle, enlarged to trap a full-grown man. I’d used it against Robin the First in my very first encounter with the Dark Knight. Batman fell to the ground with a grunt, his arms caught in the trap. He looked up at me with surprise and anger. Normally, I’d take a moment to deliver a clever riddle, but I had no time. Batman would find a way out of the trap soon and I needed to get to the Met. I hopped out of the Batmobile, cane in hand, and ran as fast as I could down the street, cut across an alley, and kept running without a look back. The Met was within sight now, as was my revenge.

  
  
  
_Part Six_

_The Denouement_

It had to be well past three in the morning as I ran up the stone staircase that led into the Gotham Met. I could see only dim lights on through the glass windows, as was expected. What was also expected was the fact that the doors to the museum were wide open, the alarm blaring. I shook my head and stepped inside. I briskly walked past three security guards, lying unconscious on the floor, their bodies covered in the same mud I found on ‘Arthur’s’ body. I hesitated for a moment. Arthur was one thing, but Hagen...but pride won out over common sense, as usual, I’m sure some would say, and I pressed on. It was just as well I didn’t have my gun, I supposed. 

I ventured further down the entrance hall and into the main foyer of the museum. Sure enough, who do I spot standing in the middle of the marble floor, holding a framed artwork with that ridiculous costume and idiotic look on his face? _“Arthur!”_

Arthur, or ‘Cluemaster’ as he called himself, whipped his head around at the sound of my voice. “Eddie?” he asked rather dumbly. “What-how-”

“Did you really think,” I seethed, stepping closer to the man, my hand in a tight grip on my cane. “That this little _farce_ would be enough to stop me!?”

Arthur stood as still as a statue in Gotham Square, dropping his ill-gotten gain on the floor. “You-how did you-”

I chuckled. “You know what your problem is, Arthur? What has always been your problem? You have all the creativity of a big-budget blockbuster. You ripped off my gimmick, my puzzle box, even my cane. You tricked Mockridge into letting you into his home using that ‘Coleman Reese’ alias I concocted for that job a few years back. Then, once I correctly deduced your involvement, you hired Hagen to impersonate you at your hideout. You even set up a bomb to make sure I’d be out of the way.” I stopped when I was less than three feet away from him and gestured to the empty room we were in. “And all for this? To steal _my_ heist? Even for you Arthur, that’s low.”

Arthur’s face no longer resembled a gaping fish but had now turned red. “And you know what your problem is, Eddie? That damn planet of an ego of yours! You just couldn’t let me have this, could you? You always have to show me up, don’t you!? You don’t respect me, Eddie! You never did! That’s why our partnership never worked out!” Arthur laughed then. “Well, I’m done being called the c-list version of you. After tonight, I’ll be the smartest guy in town.” He snapped his fingers, and a stream of mud shot out of a vent to our left. Oh right. Hagen. The mud stream solidified and formed the monstrosity that was once a mediocre actor. Clayface stood, smirking at me. “You seriously think I did all of this to just frame you, Eddie?” Arthur asked. “What would the point of that be? You’d just get sent back to Arkham. No, I knew that if I killed your old boss, you’d come crawling out of whatever hideout you had to come get me. I thought the bomb would kill you, but I think I like this better.” Hagen took a step forward then, and I took a step back, raising my hands up.

“Now Hagen,” I said, trying not to let on how nervous I was. “I’m sure I can double whatever Arthur’s paying you.”

“I’m not doing this for money,” Hagen said. He flexed an appendage, fashioning it into a sort of clay scythe. I’d be fascinated by it if it weren’t intended to kill me. Oh Hell, I still was. “You remember that film museum you and your little hench wenches robbed last year?”

Of course, I did, but...oh Jesus Christ. “Are you still upset about your old costume displays getting destroyed? I admit the girls can be a bit rough, but-”

“Shut it, Nigma!” Hagen shouted. He raised his arm-scythe high, ready to cut me down. “I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.”

A note to myself: perhaps I need to start being more considerate of my fellow Rogues. When they stop being morons, perhaps. As I was considering my mortality, I happened to look up at the glass skylight and caught a black shadow. I smirked. “Well Hagen, since you were impersonating Arthur here at his former hideout, you must have noticed who was with me.” I took a quick look at Arthur and saw that he looked confused. “Looks like your partner hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with you, Arthur,” I sassed. “Batman’s my partner in this case.”

Arthur’s jaw dropped and I couldn’t help but laugh. How he’d lasted more than a week on his own was a riddle even I couldn’t solve. “Batman?” He glared at Hagen. “You didn’t say anything about Batman!”

“I can handle Batman,” Hagen said dismissively. “And I don’t see any sign of your ‘partner’, Nigma.”

Another movement caught my eye at the skylight. “Riddle me this,” I said with a flourish. “Why is this man smiling?” I pointed up at the skylight. Arthur and Clayface looked up just in time to see Batman and Robin come crashing through the glass. Really, how much property damage has the vigilante committed in all these years? Oh well. I took advantage of the distraction to dive out of the way of shattered glass. Once I was a good few feet away, I saw Batman and his sidekick immediately launch an attack on Clayface. Well, they were welcome to him. I had another fish to fry. Arthur watched the fight with wide eyes, then he happened to turn and make eye contact with me. I gave him a wave, then brought up my cane. Arthur turned and ran towards the back of the museum, like the gutless coward he is. I gave chase, just avoiding clay projectiles and...ice? Seems that Batman had access to ice weapons now. Useful information to have.

For someone who was attempting to rob the place, Arthur didn’t seem to have any grasp of the layout of the museum, for he had run into a Native American Art exhibit that had no exit. Typical Arthur for you. I followed him inside and spotted him picking up a ceremonial club. “What was that you said earlier Arthur, about my never having any respect for you?” I asked, advancing towards him with my cane at the ready. “Allow me to clarify: I show you the amount of respect that you deserve: none.”

Something dark flashed across Arthur’s face. “I’m so sick and tired of you!” he yelled, charging towards me with the club. Cute. However, I didn’t get to be the King of Conundrums by having the girls do all my fighting for me. I stepped to the side, easily avoiding Arthur’s wild swing, then with a swing of my cane, I hit him in the wrist, disarming him and making him yell out in pain. I took another swing at his midsection, causing him to double over. Then for good measure, I punched him in the face. Arthur fell backward into a glass and lay there, stunned.

I shook my head and clucked my tongue. “You know Arthur, I have to hand it to you. You’re one Hell of a copycat. But you forgot the most crucial thing: a riddle. It’s my ultimate signature.” I laughed. “No, you didn’t forget, did you? You just couldn’t come up with one.” I leaned down, poking the tip of my cane at his throat, reveling in the frightened look he had. “And that’s why, Arthur, I’ll _always_ be better than you.”

Arthur gulped, then wet his lower lip. “N-no hard feelings, Eddie?”

Less than ten minutes ago, he thought he was going to watch Clayface kill me and now here he was, begging for his life. Never change, Arthur. “Sure,” I said with a shrug. “No hard feelings.” I let a relieved smile come to Arthur’s face before I flipped my cane and smacked him in the face with the handle, hard.

“Having fun?”

I turned at the voice and saw Batman and Robin in the doorway, almost as if they were waiting for me. I walked away from Arthur and towards the door with my usual flair. “I’ve left Arthur practically gift-wrapped for you. Where’s Hagen?”

“We’ve got him frozen in the main hall,” Robin said. “We’re thinking about leaving him here as a modern art exhibit.”

Oh, Hagen would love that. “Well then,” I said. “Gentlemen, it’s been entertaining, but it’s past time for my beauty rest-” Batman grabbed me by the elbow before I could even think of walking out the door. “Oh come on,” I asked. “Don’t I get any consideration for helping bring in Arthur and Clayface?”

“Didn’t we have to save you from Clayface?” Robin asked with a raised eyebrow. Little brat.

I crossed my arms. “You wouldn’t have known the first place to look if I didn't lead you here! I think I deserve some credit-”

“I knew Brown was behind it when Baxter mentioned ‘Coleman Reese’,” Batman interjected, his tone flat. “After I dropped you at GCPD, we were going to come here anyway.”

I really, really, _really_ hate that man. 

And so, Arthur was arrested and sent to Blackgate pending trial for the murder of Daniel Mockridge, Clayface was taken off to thaw in some police lab somewhere, and I was deposited back in Arkham. Which brings me to the riddle I asked at the beginning of my little tale: How does someone find a way to win, and still lose?

I know what you’re thinking: this must be a reference to myself. I cleared my name and brought Arthur down a peg, but I wound up back in Arkham in the end. Good try, but the person who won, but still lost, is Batman. Haven’t you wondered, my dear doctor, why I’ve been so free with information today? It’s all been one big distraction. By the time you’ve finished decoding this missive I slipped under your door this morning and realized the game, Query and Echo will have secured my release. The alarm bells must be going off right about now if you’re a fast reader. I’m dreadfully sorry I’ll have to miss our sessions, but for being such a good sport, maybe I’ll bring you a souvenir. 

  
  
_The End_


End file.
